Well, This Sucks
by TaekwondoAssKicking
Summary: This was it. The last Regeneration was at the end of its life. There wasn't enough Regenerative Energy left, and The Doctor was given a fatal blow. Wait. Wha...? What? What. WHAT. WHAT? Bloody hell. Well, I guess things never go the way as planned... specially when The Doctor is involved. What will The Doctor do in this new predicament? The 14th Doctor? Not possible!


**The End**

The Doctor slumped down, breathing heavily.

_This is it. No more regenerations_, he thought, panting. He hurt all over. Why did he hurt all over? And he felt... wet. Yes. Wet. Like a dog. Like a stinky dog after running in the rain and then sleeping inside the house. Hot. Dingy. Musty. _Stinky. _Why was it so hot? Stupid! He forgot to repair the air conditioner... wait. Does the TARDIS even _have _an air conditioner? …

Well, he wasn't going to find out. Ever.

This saddened The Doctor very much. Did he remember to feed the fish? Did he even have a-

The Doctor suddenly yelped and clutched his left heart, feeling a sticky and warm substance stain his hand and sleeve. The Doctor looked, wincing at the sight of so much of the oxygen-carrying plasma infused with red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets. A large stain of the plasma was slowly engulfing his whole chest, making its way down and further to the sides. It felt heavy and painful and dense and cloggy and prickly and _stinky._

"This – this is it, my love," The Doctor breathed, lifting a heavy arm to pat the large control system, making it clang loudly. "It has been – my pleasure t-to travel with you – my eternal companion..."

And with that, The Doctor's arm fell limp on the TARDIS' floor, his hearts both stopped, his chin fell to his blood-soaked chest, and the 1200-and-something-year-old man gave his last breath.

The Last Timelord was dead.

The Doctor was dead.

And the TARDIS cried.

It was a sad cry. And then it turned loud and angry.

The TARDIS' cry of anguish reverberated throughout all of time and space, sending waves to the beginning of time itself and all the way to the end of it, pained, suffering. It was the anguished cry of a sister losing her brother, a mother her son, a widow her husband, a faithful companion to the very end...

It was heart-wrenching.

BUT wait!

Golden dust exploded from within The Doctor, spreading from his hearts to the exterior, clinging on to every inch of his skin, spreading to his limbs like a thick coat of honey. The Doctor's body convulsed, golden dust turning orange, then a dark brown with specs of gold, shooting out of his head, hands and feet, much like a glowing starfish sweating out dark sunshine like a dying star in a faraway galaxy.

The dust vanished as abruptly as it appeared.

The Doctor breathed in and his hearts started with a jolt of electric energy.

He groaned.

He opened his eyes, then shut them again, the light bothering him. He blinked owlishly.

What.

He was alive.

How was that possible? It wasn't possible. It was impossible. How could this impossibility have possibly happened? It just wasn't _possible_...! The Doctory blinked and looked at his surroundings. Odd. The TARDIS seemed more... spacious. Vast. Large. Big. Yes, certainly big.

"Have you been eating Time Lord Space Chocolate Energy _again?_" The Doctor questioned the TARDIS out loud, if not a bit exasperated. "Not that I'm complaining, a fat TARDIS means more space-"

The power went out, leaving him in the dark.

"Women." The Doctor muttered. Then, loudly, "Oh no, girl, I'm not calling you fat, you beautiful thing, it's just everything seems so _big _– why is my voice so squeaky? My voice is squeaky, why is that? Why – what."

His hands looked _small._

"What."

He stood up abruptly, tripped over his own two feet, and face-planted on the very hard and metal TARDIS floor. He grunted.

"Whaaa...?" The Doctor turned, and saw that the large nightgown he had on and the big pile of clothes on the ground were the culprits for his not-so-graceful meeting with his beloved TARDIS' floor. "Who left these there? I know I didn't. Who was it, then? They weren't there a few minutes ago when I was – what."

He had been dying. What.

The Doctor stood up – and lifting his nightgown as one would a dress – he ran up the stairs (almost tripping once more) and towards the TARDIS' 'front door,' as he called it. His (small) fingers found a small gap on the wall, and pulled, bringing out a long make-shift mirror.

The Doctor stared at his reflection.

"What."

His high pitch voice.

"What."

He wasn't wearing a nightgown, but a white collar dress shirt and a dangling tie.

"What...!"

Small hands, small fingers, small limbs, small chest, round head, messy black hair, small brown eyes, fragile neck, thin as a stick...

"WHAT!?"

The Doctor, for the first time ever, had regenerated into a _child._

_What._


End file.
